There's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you've paid for
by ibuzoo
Summary: There's always a cost at every revolution, even if it's a success, it always leads to death, he will lose Altair and that means more to him than any political movement. But Altair will never understand, so Malik closes his eyes, hides in the crook of Altair's neck, keeps silent and counts the drums of Altair's beating heart.


Malik remembers the night he met Altair, remembers the rain, cold, wet, drizzling on his dark hair. It's the cause of all his troubles.

They're born in an age where people are dying form poverty while commonwealth and government line their pockets. Altair looks beautiful, an avenging angel that pulls off a Messiah quite well, burning with the fire of slaves, a fervor in his golden eyes that seem to inspire the oppressed, gives them hope, fights for freedom while he bears the burden of truth. He wears a golden halo born out of words, leads their group with sharp intellect and idealism and the fury of people who are suppressed too long.  
Malik can't help but feels, as if Altair leads them all to the cross.

He's still beautiful, but that isn't enough.

Knowledge is the worst curse that befalls Malik, the knowledge that this is a lost case, the stinging scent of warm blood that fills his nostrils to the extent where he can almost taste it, a heart beating in the rhythm of drums and expanding lungs, revolutionary idealists standing atop of a barricade. He has always been a realist, a cynic in the eye of a revolution he's born to die for, born to die for a man, victorious, etched from arabian sands and blazing flames. The moment Malik's eyes had fallen on Altair he knew he was lost, his glory sings to him, fills his soul when his friends cheer with relief and purpose.

There are no cheers which reach his ears now.

Malik wishes that this had never started.  
People are saying it was God's idea, holding fast onto the thought that something divine will guide them, free them, but he is quickly determined that it was a bad one, at least for humanity.

Altair is destined for misery, not divinity.  
Not one of their friends seem to realize this, still, sometimes Malik could see a crown of thorns enthroning his brown cropped head, and it looks far too heavy, but this is his penance.

He imagines an Altair who had the chance to grow old. He can't.

Revolutions never end, they barely stop to breathe.

A revolution is always a war, and wars are brutal, sharp, but the peace of a better dawn aches with the promise of no pain, this is Altair's preach, his gospel and when Malik hears his holy words, spiced with fire and the certainty of a war god, he knows where he belongs.

Venturing back outside into a world that's cruel and vicious was never an option.

Malik remembered the first time they kissed. It was messy and sloppy and wet, his hands grasping at Altair's shoulder, pressing to his body, smelled gunfire, tasted sweat and blood and water and freedom on his tongue, a dark alley behind ominous bars, wet hair clinging to his front, Altair, Altair, Altair.

What Malik remembers the most, is the rain.

He wonders, not for the first time, if, at the end of all this horror, that silver lining to survive this will prove real.

(A little part of him screams to run, abandon the barricade, abandon their revolution, abandon Altair, but he can't even dignify that with a fully formed thought. He can't be that selfish. He won't.)

They always met in a pub before Edward joined up with their group, too loud and full of life. They relocated to his flat, crammed with souvenirs form the sea, his one and only love as he always claimed, and when they held a meeting the room was much too tight and crowded with idealistic heads and Altair's fiery wit.

Altair still seemed impossibly young, and a coil of dread tightens in Malik's chest.

History has never been in the favor of young revolutionaries.  
He puts this thought away.

In his moments of clarity, which are usually dampened by dark minds and cynic answers, he finds himself wondering what exactly he is doing here, wasting his life in a cause he knows will fail, trying hard to persuade his friends to see reason and take a chance to life longer.  
It only takes one look at the man at the other side of the room to remind him.

When it comes down to it, it's very easy. He could stay, take whatever the golden eyed demigod is willing to give him, may it be his mere presence, his disdain for the government or the insults Malik makes a habit of throwing at him. Or he could leave.

There's not even a choice.

"Are you ashamed of us?", Altair asks in the night, too dark to see him, silhouettes on dirty sheets, the smell of gunpowder and fire still clinging to Malik's nose, he denies it vehemently, but Altair presses, urges, "Are you ashamed of our cause, of our people?", and Malik denies it again, could never feel ashamed of Altair's dreams and fights, he's the General and Malik his Lieutenant, always by his side, born for this purpose only.

"Then why would you want to live in a world that is?", Altair asks again and Malik has no answer, knew this point would come eventually, Altair weighing their lives against the greater sake, against freedom and acceptance and equality among all people, and what is Malik supposed to say?

There's always a cost at every revolution, even if it's a success, it always leads to death, he will lose Altair and that means more to him than any political movement.

But Altair will never understand, so Malik closes his eyes, hides in the crook of Altair's neck, keeps silent and counts the drums of Altair's beating heart.

It's tempting, for half a second, to listen to Altair, believe the fire in his eyes, let it burn him down, ashes to flame, rise once more, fight for himself, fight for the people, can you hear them Malik?, the angry crowd, rioting, nobody wants to be a slave again, let go of all of it, stop trying to save everyone, just be.

But then he looks at the barricade, sees Ezio aiming at the soldiers, always on the scout, a bloodhound, an athirst for freedom, for Altair's words, drinking them greedy with the hope of a better morning. He sees Connor and Haytham and Edward dragging wood and furniture to build the barricade, make it steadier, make it safer for their dream, laughing, drinking, family. He sees little Desmond, barely a teen, barely fifteen fighting in a fight that he won't survive, fighting for a cause the boy cherishes too much and Malik doesn't believe anymore, not when he closes his eyes and remembers the taste of burned flesh and pieces of his friends scattered across a burning barricade, all he wants to do is run.

He shuts down that feeling for the thousandth time, and stays.

Altair looks up, eyes asking, pleading, waits for Malik to catch up, a challenging smirk around the corners of his lips.

Malik just stops.

Malik stands behind the barricade, motionless, breathless, incapable of action, he mumbles, but no sound escapes his lips, hears nothing, an endless void, his blood pumping trough his head, his veins, sees nothing but the fires out of musketries, night sky lit up, eyes wide awake.

He feels nothing but the rain, pelting furiously, drenching them to the bones.

The rain doesn't stop.

Everything's still after, Malik's sitting at the foot of the barricade, soggy, tired, cold, Altair's voice gentle, murmurs reassurances he doesn't hear, all he can hear is the beating of his heart, a rhythmic pounding, dancing in his head, pulsing through his body.  
It's the first time they've been this close since days.

"We need to go," Altair's voice mumbles into his hair, trying to steel against his own trembling.  
"I know," Malik whispers but neither of them moves. His arms tighten around Malik protectively, breath warm and Malik lets himself have this, just this once, just for a moment, because soon he'll have none left.

Edward and Connor were slaughtered, ruby red on their dirty linen, bullets passed through them as if they were butter, both died, just before the army retreated. The last thing Malik saw of Connor was his face, still young, willing to fight, willing to die, covered in Edward's blood, Altair's words had thought them invincible.

Malik cries but the rain washes his tears away.

Haytham leaves.

Malik can't blame him.

"It will end soon," Altair says when they wait to dry, his spirit not broken, the fervor of the fight still in his veins, behind them on the streets he hears the people, the riot, the fight they're singing for and knows, despite everything, that he was right from the beginning. Altair repeats himself, sharp and impatient, as if Malik didn't listen but he's always listening, Altair forgets, so he answers, defeated, "Yeah."

It will end soon.

Malik knows they aren't going to win, what is a man to world not ready for the future, not ready for a better dawn, they'll fall down, hard and fast, and when they fail Malik gets a front-row seat.

He watches the rain raging into a storm, sees the troops holding themselves ready for the next attack, and wonders if he'll stick around long enough to see Altair die.

He hopes not.

Fate, it seems, will always be against them.

The sky opens up, pours its tears, because the sky understands, bawls and weeps for the sacrifices that will be made, it feels appropriate, and Malik holds out his hands, washes them clean in the torrent, blood dripping down his arms from where he pressed his palms down on Desmond's leg, trying to stop the wound long enough until the doctor arrived.

In the end, Malik knows, comprehends that sometimes the earth desires more than rain to slake its thirst.

It's all in a blur, there's gunfire and chaos, the smell of burned flesh and the dirt of their streets, and Malik feels as if he's standing in a slaughterhouse, unafraid. He can't help but search for Altair, clinging to the only hope he had left, that the bastard was still alive, that he'll see him once more, his eyes, the smile, hears his name.

When he finally spots him, Altair's radiating a light so bright and pure, a prophet burning in the middle of a blood field, it scares Malik. He sees the bullet slicing Altair with all his fibers, feels the phantom pain on himself with all his senses, piercing him and with every second of his fall, his golden eyes lose their shine, the ghost of terror, his lips their color, and a soft, sweet stinging pain wraps Malik as Altair touches the ground, one last sigh escapes his body, one last remnant of an existence that is not anymore and shall never return, in reality, his body a mere corpse, destiny accomplished.

No glory, no future, no cheers and no light anymore. Nothing. For all is over and all is gone, darkness and despair, silence.

A shrilling terrified sound fills his ears and he needs a moment to accept that it is his own voice, which screams Altair's name with such vigor that his throat gets sour, yells and howls, the desperation renews his strength but his sobs choke him, his eyes wet and red from unshed tears, body trembling with a force he didn't know he still held, nothing left uncorrupted.

The canons blow the furniture, bullets fly rapid from both sides, screams, shouts, cries, moans, he barely feels the gunshots, or maybe they're all he feels, but he sees only Altair, stricken, still upon the floor, lifeless, silent.

As his body fails him, and he falls down on the floor, next to Altair's body, their bloods mix, he prays it's the end, that he dies with Altair.

There's silence and powder impregnates the air, all is blurry, all is grey, and the sky is red like fire, red like a new dawn, red like the blood that the rain washes away from friends which used to be full of hope, dreams and ambitions, full of life.

Altair lies down in the dirt besides their friends, his allies, his family, blood piercing trough his rags, gunpowder clinging on his febrile face and Malik can still see ablaze in his now blank eyes, can still imagine the softness of his lips, kisses them, and stands.

His arm hangs useless on his side, wrecked from bullets, blood dripping down and highlighting the pavement, marks his walk of defeat, his heart carries the burden of a guilt he will never forgive himself for, for he lives but his friends are dead.

There are no tears in his eyes, no need for the rain to water them down.

The rain stops.


End file.
